


the sun has (not) come again

by hamletmustdie



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: 2doc - Freeform, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Phase Three (Gorillaz), Some Fluff, mostly just angst...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 00:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17193437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamletmustdie/pseuds/hamletmustdie
Summary: Time spent on Plastic Beach seems to circle and cycle like a broken clock. A handful of drabbles spent in Phase 3.





	1. fruit

Murdoc swiped what was on the table off of it. The microphone, soundboard, and swaying Hawaiian hula bobble-head lady struck the floor with an expensive sounding  _ THUD. _ He wasn't being dramatic, just drunkenly careless, and perhaps a little romantic, too. Perhaps that. 

 

“Don’t get yer blood everywhere, alright?” He muttered. 2D, pale and dizzy, did not like the sight of blood and he especially didn’t like the sight of his own blood. Murdoc guided him to sit at the other side of the table, prying his left hand from it’s ironclad grip on the gash over his right. “Let me see it already,” Murdoc grumbled, and 2D whined something annoying and stupid. He tugged his hand free and finally saw the damage.

 

“Peeling fruit with that fuckin’ knife again?”

 

“It slipped from my hand!” 2D cried, defensive. Murdoc rolled his eyes and leaned forward. Under the light bulb of his shoddy recording studio, the cut couldn’t have been longer than three inches. It bled quickly and thick, although Murdoc wasn’t worried; nothing too important was in there to be concerned over, anyway, and worse case scenario he’d have a hard time plucking at the guitar the next few months. No big deal.

 

“Have you cleaned it?”

 

“Hm?” 2D blinked up at him. “Oh. No. Should I?”

 

Murdoc looked up at him to glare, making the other shrink back a bit. “For respondin’ like that, you deserve this,” he said, and before 2D could quite grasp his meaning, he was expertly unscrewing the cap of a half empty bottle of vodka that had survived the sweeping of almost everything on the table. Murdoc flicked the cap away and upturned the bottle over the marred hand just as 2D tried to squirm away. It splashed against the gash ruthlessly and Murdoc would be lying if he claimed he hadn’t found it at least a  _ little _ funny that 2D had cried out, clapped a hand over his mouth, then shot him a venomous look.

 

“You should’ve cleaned it,”

 

“I didn’t _ think  _ to, Muds,  _ Christ! _ ”

 

Murdoc shrugged, glanced about the room. The smell of alcohol mixed with blood and the ever constant salty smell of the sea not far outside. A first aid kit was bolted against the wall next to a fire extinguisher making him wonder once again what this building might’ve once been used for. Whatever. He stood and plucked it off the wall and brought it back to the table, throwing it open.

 

“Does it need stitches?”

 

“Yep,” he said tonelessly.

 

“Aww, who’s gonna do that way out here? I can’t give myself stitches!”

 

“I can,” The first aid kit had sterile gloves, needles, gauze, and plenty else to handle the task. At the other side of the table this comment seemed to wash over 2D quite slowly and comically. 

 

He somehow paled, said, “You’re a shoddy marksmen! Your hands are always shaking!”

 

“Are  _ not, _ ” Murdoc snapped, slamming the kit closed once he’d gotten all he needed. “Now hold still,”

 

“Wait a minute,” 2D drew back before Murdoc could grab his wrist. “Wait a minute, wait, wait- isn’t there anesthetics in there? You know, something to make it go all numb?”

 

“This ain’t a  _ hospital, _ Dents. I got a needle don’t I? Now give me yer hand-”

 

“No!”

 

“Yes!”

 

“No!” 2D tried to stand up but Murdoc jerked forward, grabbing his wrist and yanking him towards the table again. He fell back into his chair with a  _ WHUMP  _ sound, looking defeated. “You’ll at least be careful, right Muds? You won’t mess up?”

 

“‘Course I won’t,” Murdoc waved one hand dismissively. It wasn’t like he hadn't done this before, to someone else or even to himself. It wasn’t so difficult but any skill owned by Murdoc Niccals was something worth boasting about, mundane or not. He threaded the needle with the medical thread (forgetting to put on the sterile gloves he’d pulled out), and leaned forward to look at the gash again. So like 2D to fuck himself up on this shitty island in the middle of literal fucking nowhere. At least it wasn’t something actually worth worrying over. He dabbed at the area around the cut and cleaned it as best he could, snapping at 2D when he whined that it hurt. He wondered what he’d do in the case of something  _ actually _ troublesome taking place here. A little first aid kit on a wall couldn’t do much in some circumstances, and he couldn’t help but visualize the trouble someone like 2D might get himself into. Irreversible things, things Murdoc couldn’t drag him into his recording studio to fix. Things no one would be able to fix.

These images made him furrow his brow in concern and when 2D began leaning forward to watch him closely, he shoved the thoughts away and went to work. Across from him, 2D bit his lip, hard, buried his face in his other arm, occasionally hit his fist against the table. He bit his t-shirt to keep from whining too loudly. “Come on, now, it can’t hurt that much, Dents,” As annoyed as he might’ve been, he stopped twice to allow 2D to catch his breath. With anyone else he might’ve just told them to suck it up and get over it. Murdoc Niccals didn’t care to address what made 2D so different. 

He finished up with nine stitches in all, formerly eight but then he’d had to go back and add one more. Oh well. Murdoc placed his tools aside and clapped 2D on the shoulder in a poor attempt at comfort.

 

“There. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Across from him, 2D’s eyes were wet. He was still biting the shoulder of his t-shirt to withhold any noise as he gingerly pulled his hand away to inspect what Murdoc had done. Good enough for him, it seemed, as he touched experimentally at the stitches, hissing in pain when he pressed too hard. The skin around the stitches was red, swollen, and smeared with dried blood. “Might wanna clean it again,” He warned and when 2D looked at him in terror, he raised his hands in surrender, “Relax, relax, you can do it this time.” He stood up, considered the mess he’d created here, and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble right now. The room felt stuffy now, and though he’d grown somehow tired of the tropical scenery, he badly wanted some fresh air. Passing 2D he bent forward, placed a chaste kiss against his sweaty forehead. “You’ll be alright, love,”

A brief, secretly frantic attempt at passion. Murdoc’s heart was hammering in his chest. His hand was on the door knob when 2D spoke.

 

“Muds?” His voice was still shaky.

 

“What?” 

 

“Thanks,”

 

He might’ve jolted a bit, swallowing. Funny how little things like that caught him off guard. “Yeah. Whatever. Don’t do it again,”

2D’s smile was a little too genuine. Murdoc scowled and stepped out.

  
  



	2. docks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At night, the sea doesn't look so friendly. 2D half-heartedly tries to leave Plastic beach.

At night, the sea doesn’t look so friendly, 2D thinks as he moves softly across the sand. It’s soundless, no crinkling of leaves or snapping sticks beneath his feet like in the horror movies. His escape is almost mundanely uneventful. There are no yapping dogs or searchlights. Just him, this tiny beach, and the glimpse of a lifeboat he’d thought he’d seen when he first arrived here.

His hands are twisting at his middle, a nervous habit of twiddling, twitchy fingers he developed sometime when he was a teenager. Sand collects in his sneakers from the holes in the soles. One might think with all the money singing has brought him, he’d dress differently. In all honesty, it had just never been his priority.

 

The lighthouse on the island is off. The only sound is the gentle rush of water on the shore. When Murdoc had brought him here, he’d taken also a shoddily packed suitcase of 2D’s belongings. Several pairs of mismatched socks, underwear, shirts, and shorts. He’d forgotten it, somehow, back in his room surrounded by water. Not sure how he could forget his one bag of belongings. Oh well. The clothes on his back could last him the week or so trip to land.

 

His pace kicks up as he reaches the docks. It’s a long, rickety wooden thing, it’s pink paint chipping and eroding where the water touches it. 2D can’t imagine how long it took to paint this hell-hole of an island. Weeks? Months? Who knew. Within a year an the whole thing might be some sickly, off-set pink from sea spray. Maybe by then it would have disappeared, sunken. God, he wishes the whole thing would just sink. Break to bits and wash away. But all that trash… It would make the fish sick.

He stumbles onto the dock, surprised by his own creaking footsteps. The dock stretches out over the water and stops suddenly to the water below. He doesn’t see Murdoc’s boat, his access to this island. The submarine he’d spoken of quite haughtily days earlier. The dock is alone and empty. No lifeboats, no motorboats, not even a little tube to hop into and float away. A gentle sort of disappointment washes over him. A breeze tousles his hair. He never thought he could come to hate the smell of the beach so much. In fact, in his romantic sort of mind, he’d thought he might come to find it represented home. The wind was free, after all. 

Instead it reminded him of rot and sickness. Tequila bottles left out in the sun too long. Swaying, dried up palm trees. It’s an island but it feels tiny. Surrounded by endless miles of blue at day time and blackness at night. A sandy, pink prison where the sun beats down on his everyday until he can't breathe. His hands draw up to his middle again as he walks along the empty dock towards the other end.

 

The dock is empty because of course it is. When has luck ever favored him?

 

At the edge of the dock, 2D looks out and see’s…. Nothing. The moon reflecting on the water, black and void-like. He wonders what it would be like to drown; he’s heard it’s frightening until it isn’t. A sort of peaceful enveloping feeling as water rushes into you and you sink sink sink. Like a drug. How cliche. 

The docks sounds, of water, or dripping, of creaking, seep into him like a lullaby, and so he doesn’t notice the steps leading into the dock, cautious and testing. 

 

“Hey,” 

 

It startles him. He turns.

 

Murdoc’s wearing that stupid imitation captain outfit again. White long sleeves and red scarf tied shoddily around his neck. Except the shirt’s stained with wine and he looks disheveled. 2D blinks dumbly back at him, some ten feet away at the other end of the dock. 

 

“What’re you up to, huh?” Murdoc’s voice sounds little against even a calm sea. 2D supposes that the ocean had that sort of affect on people.

 

“I,” 2D looks back out, then returns his gaze to Murdoc. His eyes are big and wary. He’s got two hands out like he’s approaching a lion. 2D only then notices the tip of his shoe is an inch from the docks edge. He can imagine how this might look. “Just lookin’.”

 

“Ah,” Murdoc nods but his gaze is locked on the tiny space between 2D and the sea below. It’s maybe a seven foot drop into perhaps ten or so feet of water. Not so bad. Nothing worth worrying over. “Pretty, innit? Picked a place with a great view,”

 

“Yeah,” 2D sighs. So this didn’t work. But still. He can swim. He’d taken lessons in school. Sure, he skipped most of the classes, but even so. He’d taken enough.

 

“Dents,” Murdoc’s voice again, “what’s on yer mind?” 2D shrugs. Murdoc takes another step forward.

 

“Nothing’s on my mind,” 2D says, hesitant. “I’m just-” The sea stretches out, endless, like some wide, black road. Maybe, just maybe-

 

“Come on Dents,” Murdoc’s voice feigns humor, but 2D can hear the wavering panic beneath it. Because he could escape or because he felt it so necessary to try? 2D wasn’t sure. He’s never been sure about the things that go through Murdoc’s mind but he’s always noticed his insecurities. By God, he wears them on his sleeve like a teenage girl. A shame he doesn’t notice. It’s almost sad.

 

He can hear the water lapping against the columns of the dock. He isn’t sure why it pisses him off so much.

 

“Come on  _ what _ ? What’re you so worried about?” He’s testing him, a rare quirk. He watches Murdoc state back at him, dumbfounded. He opens his mouth, closes it, like a fish. 2D laughs, but it’s dry and raspy. He lets his foot scoot closer to the edge, knocking off sand to cascade onto the water below. “I wanna go home, Muds.”

 

A glimpse of something crosses over Murdoc’s face. Something terrible and vulnerable. Then it’s gone and he waves his hands dismissively and says, “Where’s home then, Dents? Show me and we’ll go there.” 

 

The bitterness in Murdoc’s voice makes him flinch a bit. Murdoc’s smiling, too, now but it’s twisted and thin. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but then again, rarely do they ever. 

Truthfully, 2D doesn’t know where home  _ is.  _ And home comes with so many pretexts, too. These are pretexts 2D doesn’t have. He isn’t sure where Russ went. He tries not to think of Noodle, a habit which he is comically unskilled at. The water laps and laps at the dock and 2D begins to feel nauseous. He gets seasick everytime Murdoc takes him out on the water. He gets sick whenever he thinks of Noodle. He gets sick whenever he thinks of Murdoc. He is always so, so sick.

 

“I don’t know,” 2D says after a terrible length of silence. “I don’t know where it is,”

“Come back this way, then. Away from the water. It’s late. You’ll catch a cold.” Murdoc’s holding out a hand as if the dock is a tightrope. “Let’s go. I’m tired a’bein’ out here,”

“No one asked you to come out here,” 

 

“Quit smart mouthin’ me and come on,”

 

“No,”

 

“Whaddaya mean  _ ‘no’ _ ?” That usual anger; he can’t tell over the salty smell but he imagines Muds reeks of liquor. He’s in more danger near the water than 2D is. “Get your ass back here or I’ll drag you back,”

 

2D holds out his arms, faces Muds fully. “Do it then,”

Of course, he’d expected Muds to take the challenge. He doesn't’ expect him to stomp forward so suddenly, teeth bared. So quick to anger, as usual. But 2D’s heel is slipping over the edge and before he knows it, Murdoc is yanking his forearm but it’s too late- his weight is far enough over the edge that 2D has three triumphant seconds to catch Murdoc’s surprised then furious glare as he realizes they’re  _ both _ going over the edge.

The fall is infinitely long and yet over too soon. The splash comes bright and loud then it’s muffled as water rushes up and swallows them both. Then they’re sinking, Murdoc’s grip on his wrist still tight. 2D settles with closing his eyes, falling quite limp. The water’s cold; perhaps it’s a good thing he didn’t try to swim. 

 

It’s some brief amount of time, just as 2D’s lungs are beginning to burn, that Murdoc surfaces with both of them, sputtering and cursing. “You stupid fuck, you think this is funny, don’t you-” But despite the anger in his voice, he’s got 2D hooked in his arm, pressed close against him, swimming with them both back to shore. Murdoc’s list of skills includes often things useless and irrelevant, but 2D hadn’t expected him to be able to swim. In fact, he’d pictured Murdoc as the type to irrationally afraid of water.

As they wade onto the shore, Murdoc drops both of them, momentarily exhausted. Still he gets onto his elbows and jabs a finger into 2D’s chest.

 

“Don’t ever try that shit again, ya hear me? Next time I’ll let your ass sink,”

 

“The water wasn’t even that deep,” 2D says, eyes still closed, as if to himself. Murdoc growls and yanks off his neck scarf, ringing it out. He’s muttering to himself again. 2D’s eyes open slowly to see the night sky. It mimics the sea in its vastness. The stars glitter on forever; a lack of light pollution and smog to hide all the beauty away. He recalls Russ telling him once of a family trip he had taken in the US to some mountain range; that without the city lights, the sky became the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Perhaps this was what his hiding place was; a wide, spansive sky. Black, devoid of meaning lest he gave it one.

He wonders if Noodle had seen a sky without light pollution to block it all out.

 

“If you were lookin’ for that lifeboat, it’s gone,” Murdoc said beside him suddenly, “Got swept out to sea at high tide,”

 

“You didn’t… Tie it down?”

 

“I did! The high tide was just particularly strong! I tied it fine!” Murdoc snapped. 2D sighed, brow furrowing, as Mud’s stood up. He stared out at the sea, then looked back down at 2D. “You’d take that boat all by yerself and leave me here, huh?”

 

2D blinked up at him. “You have a submarine.”

 

“You didn’t even bring any food or clothes,”

 

“I forgot ‘em, Muds. I’ll go back and get ‘em. Then we can go.”

 

Murdoc stared down at him, an expression mixed with irritation and something… Else… 2D couldn’t quite place it and anyway, it was hard to see his face in the darkness. His hair was falling down, longer when it’s wet, and his clothes stuck to him. Murdoc said something, soft and under his breath. 2D didn’t quite catch it.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing. Now come on,” When 2D, too tired to stand, makes no attempt to rise, Murdoc dips down and grabs his ankles. Hauling him over the sand towards the tower and their rooms again. 2D let’s him clutch his ankle so tight it bruises. Murdoc’s muttering, angry and hoarse. The sand sticks to his back, caking him. Behind him, the water laps at the dock, soft, like white noise.

  
  
  



End file.
